Inferno

by Cara Bristol

  “Thank you for the invitation.” After her uncle left, Inferno asked her, “Do you attend?”

  If she said yes, he’d probably show up front and center every Sunday. “Occasionally.” Only often enough to support her uncle and satisfy propriety. She found the singing peaceful and calming but couldn’t buy the theology.

  Inferno’s disturbing alluring scent beckoned her to lean closer. Fighting the seductive pull, she inched toward the church. “There’s probably a table free at Millie’s by now. You’d better grab it before someone else does. It was nice of you to walk me back.”

  “Can I see you again?”

  She lifted her hands and let them fall. Dammit. Inviting him to walk with her had given him the wrong idea. Logic and common sense warned he was bad news, yet the instant she saw him, her body hummed, and something in her soul—for lack of a better word—began to sing. Further encouragement would be wrong, disingenuous. And what if he started attending church? She couldn’t banish him after her pastor uncle had extended an invitation.

  “Inferno, I don’t—” She made the mistake of looking at him.

  There was a yearning in his dark eyes, as if all the hope in the world rested on her answer.

  “I’ll think about it, okay?” She fled for the safety of the building. Coward! All you did was put it off.

  * * * *

  After Geneva disappeared inside, Inferno whooped and punched the air. Progress! He hadn’t gotten a yes, but it wasn’t a no. And, she’d let him walk with her. They’d had a real conversation. Once again, Mandy’s advice had been sound and true: he needed to give Geneva time. Well, he had all the time in the world. The genetic bond could not be denied. If he didn’t hear from her by Sunday, he’d attend the service. He might come in any case. He was curious about human culture.

  With a spring in his step, he headed for Millie’s. He would celebrate his good fortune with chicken-fried steak and huckleberry pie a la mode.

  Chapter Seven

  Headed home after evening yoga class in Coeur d’Alene, Geneva was cruising along at sixty miles an hour when Wanda gave a sudden jerk and then began to slow. Fifty-five…fifty…forty-five. She pressed harder on the accelerator. What was going on? She couldn’t be running out of gas; the gauge pointed to half a tank. Forty... Thirty-five…

  “No. No. Come on, Wanda, don’t do this,” she pleaded. “I’ve neglected you, but please, don’t die now.”

  Honking cars zoomed past her. Before she stalled out, she swerved to the shoulder. Wanda rolled to a stop and died.

  Great! Just great. Why now? In another month, she’d have the money for a complete overhaul—heck, she’d be able to buy a new car, which was probably what she should do. Getting rid of Wanda would be akin to giving away a pet, but the aging machine had multiple issues, and she should be practical. It would be much more economical in the long run to get a new car.

  But first, she had to get Wanda off the highway! She put the vehicle into park and shut off the ignition. After switching on the blinking hazard lights, she reached for the phone in her purse. A tow truck would be another expense she didn’t have the money for! One more try.

  Come on, Wanda, honey. She switched on the ignition. The car hesitated but then sputtered and wheezed to life. Geneva eased into drive and goosed the gas. Nothing. She switched to the lowest gear, pressed on the accelerator, and Wanda rolled forward, but as soon as she shifted to a higher gear, the car quit.

  Geneva got her going again, and, nudging the speed to twenty miles per hour in the lowest gear, putted along the shoulder toward an intersection about a quarter mile ahead. If she took the back roads, she could get Wanda home and deal with the situation in the morning. Maybe somebody in town could give her a tow. If the car died along the way, then she would call for help.

  At the intersection, after checking traffic, she crept across all the lanes to the side road. She’d logged about two miles at a snail’s pace, when Wanda gave up the ghost. Without so much as a shudder or a whine, she died. No amount of shifting, coaxing, or swearing could get her started again.

  Geneva sat there in total darkness, silently cursing the situation. This is the second bad decision this week. One more, and I’ll have a complete set.

  She never should have given Inferno false hope.

  While Mandy Ellison had confirmed his story about the chicken-fried steak, Geneva could not date a man who proclaimed to be an alien. Every relationship went through ups and downs, but to start out on shaky ground would be asking for trouble. She’d gotten his phone number from Mandy but hadn’t found the nerve to call him. He wasn’t datable, but she hated to hurt his feelings. However, the longer she delayed, the worse it would be. She never should have allowed him to believe she’d consider seeing him. She’d known the answer was going to be no.

  Sometimes being cruel at the start proved kinder in the long run.

  She vowed to call him as soon as she got home. First, she had to get home. She dug out her phone to call a tow truck and squinted at the screen in disbelief. “No cell phone service? No!”

  Shoving the car door open, she got out. Biting cold nipped at her. She stomped along the road, holding the phone high in the air to catch a signal. Nothing. Not a single bar.

  She grabbed her coat from the car and shrugged it on. She’d have to hike to the highway and call for help, but, first, she had to push Wanda out of the road so nobody would plow into her in the dark.

  She was returning to the vehicle when an eddy of warm wind whooshed by. What the heck was that?

  She climbed into the car, put Wanda in neutral, cranked the wheels toward the shoulder, and then got out. Palms against the trunk, she pushed off with her legs and got the vehicle moving. Without streetlights, and only a crescent moon, it was near pitch black, and she couldn’t see anything. Hopefully she wasn’t pushing the car into a ditch.

  “Geneva.” A voice rumbled out of the darkness.

  She shrieked and stumbled away from the hulking black shape.

  “It’s me, Inferno!” The country road lit up and revealed a familiar face.

  “What are you doing here?” She pressed a hand to her chest. “You scared the beejeezus out of me!”

  “I didn’t mean to frighten you. My brothers and I were returning from Seattle. I saw your vehicle had broken down.”

  Thank goodness…whoa, wait a minute. How? Since leaving the main highway, she’d encountered no other vehicles. “How did you get here? Where’s your car?” She would have seen headlights.

  “We rode our hover scooters. I signaled them to go on ahead, and I stopped to help you.”

  “Hover scooter?” she repeated.

  “Over there.” He motioned with the light to the roadway in front of her car. Resolute skepticism slammed into irrefutable fact. A winged vehicle sprawled in front of her car. A motorcycle-like seat could be straddled, but the curves and angles of the gleaming metal—was it even metal?—bore no relation to anything she’d ever seen outside of a science fiction movie. The vehicle resembled a spaceship rather than a scooter.

  She dragged her stunned gaze to Inferno. Hatless, his horns stood out on his head, illuminated by his own body. Through his sleeves, his arms radiated light, fingers incandescing like glow sticks.

  Her jaw dropped. “Oh. My. God. You are an alien.” Her ears roared, and a crawling sensation spread over her skin as the blood drained from her face. She swayed as her head spun, and then she felt herself falling. The world blacked out.

  Chapter Eight

  Inferno caught Geneva before she hit the ground. Lifting her in his arms, he carried her to the hover scooter and draped her across the seat. He dashed to her vehicle and pushed it off the road into the grass. He did a quick check inside, grabbing her phone and purse.

  He stowed her belongings in the scooter’s storage compartment then straddled the seat and rearranged her so she sat sidesaddle and rested against his chest. He switched to autopilot, activated t
he refracting shield to render the vehicle and riders invisible, and took off.

  There was no guessing what kind of reception he’d receive when she revived, but he couldn’t leave her alone and unconscious. And why wait for her to wake and to hammer out their differences in the cold and dark, when they could do it from the warmth and comfort of the farmhouse?

  Returning after a consultation with Edwin Mysk, a ’Topian who’d founded a tech empire, he, Psy, and Tigre had spotted Geneva stranded on the road.

  It was pure bliss to hold her, to breathe in the floral scent wafting off her soft hair. He hoped she wouldn’t be too mad—or worse, scared—when she awakened. I guess she believes me now.

  At the farmhouse, the burning porch light spilled across the walk. As he carried her up the steps, the door opened.

  “Herian! What happened?” Tigre stepped aside.

  “She fainted.”

  “Put her here.” Psy adjusted an easy chair to a half-reclining position, and Inferno settled her in it.

  “Why did she faint?” asked Meadow, Psy’s mate.

  “I think she got a little scared.”

  “Of what?”

  “Me.” At least he had confirmation of his suspicion. If she only now had accepted he was an alien, she must have thought he’d been telling stories before.

  After such a hopeful walk, he’d heard nothing from her. Belatedly he’d realized he hadn’t given her a way to contact him, but Mandy had relayed Geneva had requested his number. When the days dragged on with no word from her, he’d begun to get discouraged.

  “Should we leave?” Tigre asked.

  If he’d frightened her, having other ’Topians present might make it worse. However, if she still doubted his veracity, the others might lend credence to his origins. Having Meadow, a human, present might reassure her.

  “No, stay.” He knelt to light the fire. Central heat hummed, but drafts snuck into the old farmhouse, and the high-ceilinged great room held a chill unless they had a fire going. He wished to ensure Geneva’s comfort when she awoke.

  The fireplace was already laid, so he harnessed a surge of energy and shot flames from his fingertips to the kindling and wadded-up newspaper. When a good burn got going, he stood up.

  “Oh my God!”

  * * * *

  Geneva regained consciousness to the sound of voices. Disoriented at first, as memories returned, she opened her eyes to find herself ensconced in a man-sized leather chair in a strange house. Peering beneath her lashes, she watched flames shoot from Inferno’s fingertips.

  She gasped. “Oh my God! You—you lit that fire with your hands!”

  “Yes.” He dropped his arms to his sides and regarded her warily.

  He’s the alien, and he’s wary of me?

  “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  “All right.” She glanced at the others in the room—two men, one woman. The woman she recognized as a clerk from Timeless Treasures Antiques in Argent. Human? Under the new paradigm, she would accept nothing at face value. To wit: one man appeared human until she noticed his pupil-less eyes. Nope, not from around here. Dark bands striped another guy’s whiskered face. Catlike whiskers, not a five-o’clock-shadow. Saber teeth jutted over his lower lip.

  She elbowed herself to a seated position and surveyed the room. Six man-sized recliners faced a massive TV mounted over the fireplace in a living room also containing a long tweed sofa. Area rugs, rather belatedly, protected scuffed and gouged oaken floors. She noticed her purse and cell phone on the coffee table.

  “Where am I? How did I get here?” The last she recalled was standing beside Wanda, seeing Inferno glow like a flashlight.

  “I brought you here. This is my home—our home,” he answered, glancing at the others. “These are two of my brothers and Meadow.”

  “Hi! I’m Tigre.” The whiskered man smiled, revealing sharp, pointy teeth.

  She gulped. “Hello.”

  “I’m Psy,” said the one with solid-black orbs.

  “Hi.”

  “I’m Meadow.” The woman from the antique store flashed a cheeky grin. “Psy and I are genmates, but I’m human, in case you were wondering.”

  “Thank you. I kinda was,” she admitted. “I recognized you from Timeless Treasures.”

  “You fainted,” Inferno explained. “It’s cold outside, and I couldn’t leave you out in the elements.”

  She grimaced in embarrassment. “Sorry about that.” She’d never passed out before, but the shock of the truth had overwhelmed her. At least, I’m still on Earth—unless I’ve been transported to some parallel, alternate universe. Maybe I’m on a spaceship that looks like a living room. Or maybe I’m floating in suspended animation, dreaming I’m in a living room that might be on a spaceship. Anything was possible at this point.

  With new eyes and an open mind, she scrutinized his ruddy complexion and prominent horns. How blind could I have been?

  “I, uh, pushed your car off the road.” His tail flicked back and forth.

  “Thank you. I’ll call someone to deal with it in the morning.”

  “Can I get you anything?” Meadow asked. “Water? Tea? Wine?”

  “Uh, a glass of water would be great,” she answered.

  After bringing her a tall glass, Meadow motioned to the men. “Let these two talk.” Obediently, they followed her out of the room, leaving Geneva alone with Inferno.

  She took a big gulp of water.

  Inferno settled in the adjacent chair. His wonderful scent enveloped her, and her body responded to his magnetism with a surge of desire. “I’m sorry for doubting you,” she said, still rocked by what she’d observed.

  “It’s all right.”

  But it wasn’t. She’d been prepared to walk away from the most interesting man she’d ever met. She twisted her hands as she fought for a way to explain how she could have ignored the truth staring her in the face. “There has always been speculation that extraterrestrials might have constructed the pyramids of Giza and Machu Picchu. UFO sightings occur all the time. Some people claim to have been beamed aboard spaceships and abducted. Others insisted they’ve seen Bigfoot, the Loch Ness monster, and Elvis Presley. The photographic evidence”—she put air quotes around evidence—“is always grainy and out of focus. So, in short, no credible source has ever presented hard proof of alien visitation.

  “In fact, here you all are, and still no one in authority has released any information about your presence.” Only recently had the government acknowledged the existence of UFOs.

  “You haven’t heard of the Intergalactic Dating Agency?”

  “I have,” she admitted. “I assumed the human-alien scenario was role play.”

  “I can’t speak for other extraterrestrials, but my brothers and I kept our arrival quiet. We didn’t announce our presence, and we’ve been careful about who we reveal ourselves to.”

  “Because of doubters like me?”

  “Because we’re hiding from the Xenos.”

  “What are Xenos?”

  “The Xeno Consortium is a super intelligence who created our people from DNA collected from species across the galaxy. Our distant ancestors were produced in a laboratory then seeded on ’Topia, which had been terraformed to support life.”

  It sounded like the stuff of science fiction, fantastical and incredible, yet the evidence sat in a reclining chair, his elbows resting on his knees, his tail curled around him. She was still processing the new paradigm yet needed to acknowledge what he’d told her. “Is that why you all look so different?”

  “We each are a different species of ’Topian, kin in spirit, not blood, although, due to genetic engineering, we do share some DNA. We escaped ’Topia together and bonded over the experience. Tigre is a Saberian, Psy is a Verital, Wingman is an Avian, and Chameleon is a Xeno—but we don’t hold it against him—and I’m a Luciferan.”

  Luciferan. The first time he mentioned that, she’d thought he�
�d been calling himself Lucifer, one of the many names of Old Scratch, the arch villain of the Christian faith. “What else can you do besides light up and produce fire?”

  “I manipulate energy. That’s about it.” He shrugged as if it was nothing.

  “You can’t fly or change shape?” she joked.

  “No. Wingman, whom you haven’t met, can fly. Chameleon is a shapeshifter. If he can see a life-form, he can mimic it. Shadow can transform from solid form to gas. Psy can read minds—but he’s extremely ethical and would never do so without permission.”

  “What about Tigre? What abilities does he have?”

  “He’s exceptionally strong and fast.”

  “You said you all escaped.” She circled back to his comment.

  “The Xenos were threatened by our evolutionary progress,” he explained. “We advanced faster than they had expected or desired, so they bombarded our planet. Thanks to Chameleon who led the evacuation efforts, a couple of ships escaped during the firestorm. My brothers and I were on one of those two ships.

  “The Xenos chased us and fired on our ship, but we lost them in jump space. However, the Castaway was damaged so we landed on the closest habitable planet, which happened to be Earth. We’d intended to repair the ship and leave, but we chose to stay instead.” He smiled. “The natives were friendly.”

  Most of them. Not her.

  She covered his hand resting on his knee and squeezed gently. Their fingers interlaced. His skin was hot, like he was running a fever—no surprise considering he’d shot flames from his fingertips—but his touch aroused shivery sensations. “I am so sorry for what you’ve been through and how I reacted to you.” Her face heated as she recalled that first encounter. She vowed never, ever to reveal she’d thought him the devil personified. She would carry that secret to the grave.

  “So, it’s okay now?” Beautiful dark-brown eyes glinted with a hopeful light.

  “It is for me.”

  “You’ll go out with me, then?”

  Their fingers were still laced so, with her free hand, she cupped his cheek. “Yes.”